


In a Cottage by the Sea

by peppermintquartz



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Demisexual Will Graham, Hannibal is helplessly in love, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, mentions of Chiyoh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-07-11 23:00:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7074127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintquartz/pseuds/peppermintquartz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham has been waiting for the other shoe to drop.<br/>Ever since they were fished out of the sea by Chiyoh, he has felt like they existed in a state of lucid dreaming. Any moment now he will wake up and all this would be gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feveredsweetness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feveredsweetness/gifts).



> Love isn't about sex.

Will Graham has been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Ever since they were fished out of the sea by Chiyoh, he has felt like they existed in a state of lucid dreaming. Any moment now he will wake up and all this would be gone.

He had expected to wake when he and Hannibal broke through the choppy surface of the sea.

When Chiyoh sewed up his cheek.

When he helped suture Hannibal’s wounds.

When they slept in the same bunk, hand-in-hand, dosed up to the gills with painkillers.

He has been waiting to wake up, for the water to burn his lungs and steal life out of his marrow.

 

The afternoon light cast on the calm surface of the sea glitters like glass shards.

 

Chiyoh has left them to their own devices once she was certain Hannibal was functional and coherent. As for Will, she said only two words to him: “Stop moving.” That was when she was sewing up his cheek.

She has supplied them with false passports and driver’s licenses, along with a pantry stocked with all manner of canned and dried goods available to a small seaside town. There are two fishing poles and a small sunroom that Hannibal has converted to an indoor garden. Will fishes off the pier and they make do with a simple diet.

There are two bedrooms. Will doesn’t share with Hannibal unless he can’t sleep.

 

Hannibal likes to touch him. He holds Will’s hands when they sit in adjoining armchairs to read or watch the surf. He brushes his thumb over Will’s scarred cheek and forehead. He trails his fingers down Will’s arm when he walks behind Will.

Will isn’t sure how to reciprocate. He’s not even sure if he wants to.

He loves Hannibal. He is _in love with_ Hannibal. There is no denying that.

He doesn’t _want_ Hannibal. Not carnally. Not sexually. 

He's tried. He knows that Hannibal is masculine and beautiful, that the other man is sensual and will be a sensitive lover.

But Will isn't able to cross that threshold. He doesn't feel that yearning to be connected to Hannibal physically, in sexual intercourse. 

He doesn’t know what Hannibal wants, other than for them to be together, always.

But how _together_ , exactly, does Hannibal want them to be?

 

Sometimes the winds grow rough and they can hear the crash of waves against the shore, like a siren song from their shared dream and nightmare. At those times, they seek each other out, wherever they are, and curl together on the narrow couch, just holding on and breathing each other in.

 

By the time tourists arrive for the season, Hannibal has grown out his hair that he ties in a loose bun and keeps a silvery scruff. He dresses in loose shirts or goes without frequently. The first time Will saw Hannibal stride out of the house in a beige shirt left untucked over khakis, he choked on his coffee. Hannibal had given him a Look, and then a genuine smile and a wink.

Will knows why Hannibal is doing this.

A new person suit, one that blends in instead of stands out.

Will himself has grown out his beard and, like Hannibal, his hair. His curls are too wild to be contained in a bun so he satisfies himself with a rough ponytail when it is too hot. Hannibal likes to finger comb Will’s hair after the younger man has showered. Will likes the sensation too much to protest.

He has seen how Hannibal admires him when he is sweaty and ruddy from the sun, watched Hannibal’s gaze skim over his jaw, neck, chest, and then down. He knows Hannibal knows he’s watching Hannibal watch him. There’s nothing the older man hides from him anymore.

 

The seaside town is full of people one day and empty the next.

 

One night, when the moon is full and bright, Will slips into Hannibal’s room and sits on the side of the bed. He knows Hannibal has woken up the moment he opened the door; once a predator, always a predator.

“We need to talk.”

Hannibal sits up with a soft grunt. He reaches for the light but Will stops him with a touch to his wrist. The older man turns his hand and grasps Will’s forearm gently, like Will is porcelain and fragile.

Will smiles to himself. Who’s thinking of Will like a china teacup now?

“I’m not sure what we are to each other,” he says. “I know what we’re not. We’re not friends. Not partners. Not lovers.” He pauses and chews over his thoughts. “What do you want us to be?”

“Ourselves,” says Hannibal. It’s simple and profound and utterly useless to Will at this moment.

He snorts and cups Hannibal’s hair-roughened cheek with his free hand. “Do you want more from me? Other than what we have?”

“Are you dissatisfied with our life now?”

“I’m asking you.”

Hannibal breathes out slowly and rubs his cheek into Will’s palm. It’s ticklish, in a good way. The pause becomes a long moment of introspection. Then Hannibal says, “I love you and you are here. It is enough.”

“Do you want to fuck me?” It’s cruder than Will wanted to say it, but the words fling themselves from his tongue before he has time to shape them.

“I want you however you wish to have me.” Hannibal presses the side of his lips to the heel of Will’s hand. “I know you have no such inclination. You have not responded to my advances in any manner that shows otherwise.”

The younger man bites his lower lip and then sits a little closer. “I don’t want our life together to be about my wishes only, Hannibal.”

“And I do not want to force you into giving what you have no wish to give.”

“I-” Will stops. He takes a deep breath and orders his thoughts. “I love you, Hannibal. I am in love with you.”

This is the first time he has acknowledged it outside of his own head. Hannibal’s grip tightens on his forearm and he hears the audible click of Hannibal’s swallowing.

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs helplessly, like he has forgotten all other languages.

Will can’t help the burst of warmth in his heart. He leans close and touches his forehead to Hannibal. “I’m sorry. I can’t... Not with the - Not sex. But if you’d like to kiss me...” His fingers tremble with longing. “I would like for you to kiss me whenever you want. For you to - to be comfortable with doing that.”

_For us to understand that we are never separating again. That I am yours as much as you are mine, even if I cannot give you everything you want from me._

Again, Hannibal whispers “Will”, as though there are no other words left in the world.

Will closes the distance and they kiss.

 

Outside, two feral cats slip through the fence. The full moon is as good as daylight for their hunting.

 

The other shoe has dropped.


	2. Chapter 2

When the sun’s warm rays falls on his face, Will blinks awake. He’s nestled against Hannibal’s chest. The graying soft curls on his lover’s chest tickle the tip of his nose and he smiles before shifting closer to bask in the older man’s musky scent. Even if Hannibal is a virtual furnace.

And then he stops.

Hannibal sniffs, still asleep, and makes a breathy hum of pleasure. He tightens his embrace and his hips start moving, pulsing slowly and lazily against Will’s thigh.

“Uh, Hannibal,” Will begins. His throat tightens with an unfamiliar panic and he forces it away. “Hannibal.”

The older man makes a growling, snuffling sound before he opens his eyes.

It’s usually amusing to Will that Hannibal is not a morning person, but today he just wants to get out of bed and get some coffee and distance as soon as possible. As he pulls away from Hannibal, his wrist is gripped gently.

Hannibal’s voice is rough from sleep. “I apologize if I’ve startled you. It’s not my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

“That’s alright,” says Will, and flees.

 

They don’t have the rich brews Hannibal used to drink, but the Arabica they do have is pleasant on the tongue and makes the house smell homey.

Will makes pancakes from scratch.

He imagines Hannibal masturbating in the shower he can hear running. That large, capable hand, wrapped around a thick erection, stroking from base to tip. It makes Will feel hot and uncomfortable, yet he can’t tear his mind from the thought.

The pancake in the pan burns on one side.

Will sets that on his plate and then takes out a jar of honey. He’s given up on processed sugar, nearly; they have found a delightful local honey that goes very well with coffee.

 

Hannibal grows flowers on the perimeter of their property. He says he is repaying the bees. Will thinks Hannibal should start his own apiary.

Outside, the sea is deep green-blue, tipped with white. The sun is still warm but Will knows it will be folly to stay outdoors for long. There's going to be rain in the afternoon, the radio and his old wounds tell him.

 

They should move on soon. They’ve risked themselves by staying for nearly a year, but Will wants to become complacent. He wants to stay and learn names and grow old here. It’s not so remote as to deprive them of company outside of each other, but not so busy as to be claustrophobic.

There are stray dogs in the neighborhood that run up to Will when he goes fishing. He’s named them, and sometimes he feeds them leftovers. He wants to put collars on them, but once he does, he can’t leave them behind again.

 

Hannibal emerges from the bathroom looking refreshed and he does not meet Will’s eyes. He thanks the younger man for the coffee and the pancakes, and filches the burnt one for himself. When Will protests, Hannibal cuts the pancake in half so they share it. It tastes horrible.

When they have both eaten the rest of the breakfast, Hannibal takes the dishes to the sink to wash up. His arms are beautifully shaped, Will thinks, mesmerized by the muscles and veins.

“I apologize for causing you distress this morning,” says Hannibal as he scrubs the plates with a sponge. “That was unintended.”

“It’s a natural bodily function,” says Will, cheeks aflame. The embarrassment embarrasses him. He’s not a prude, but realizing that Hannibal is as human as he himself is makes the entire universe feel askew. He stares into his mug of coffee. His face stares up at him, a sphynx in a dark, liquid mirror. “I-I won’t hold that against you.”

Hannibal dries the plates. “This... matter will crop up occasionally. How would you prefer to handle it?”

 _By not handling it,_ Will nearly says, and bites his lower lip. He turns the mug in his hands. Clockwise, counterclockwise.

When he looks up, Hannibal is in his seat, facing Will. Their knees will collide if they shift their postures. Will can stretch out a foot and have it captured between Hannibal’s ankles.

The younger man exhales. “I don’t know. I mean, I expected something like this, but... Will you be offended if I spend tonight in my own bed?”

“I’ll be lonely, but I won’t be offended.” The corners of Hannibal’s eyes crinkle. It makes Will’s heart lurch in a wonderful, warm way.

Will smiles and looks down at his coffee again. He sips it and savors the clean bitterness of the beverage.

 

They have separate plans for today. Before Will heads out to the grocery store, he takes the sturdy umbrella, and then goes to kiss Hannibal. Looking the older man in the eyes, he says, “I love you.”

The look in Hannibal’s eyes is softer than fog and mist. He smiles and kisses Will back. “I love you too.”

 

The town will get crowded soon. Summer is coming. They have lingered too long, lured by the easy comfort of their beachside cottage.

They should leave. Fate and the FBI won’t stay away forever.

As the afternoon rain sleets down, Will watches the waves lap up the shore. For a brief moment, he feels as though the land is sliding forward like a giant raft, heading towards an unknown destination. He wonders what is on the other side of the ocean if they sail out from here.

Through the gray curtain of rain, Will thinks about the future and what it may hold.

 

When Will comes back after picking up rice and soy sauce for their pantry, he finds Hannibal in the sunroom, picking basil and oregano. Will pauses to breathe in the scents of the fresh herbs.

It smells like the home Will has never had growing up.

 

They have a light dinner of grilled fish and steamed vegetables. Their feet touch beneath the table. Hannibal has got the fireplace going, so it’s far too warm. They listen to the rain pounding on the roof and windows in silent appreciation.

 

“We can’t stay here in the holiday season again,” says Will after dinner. He rinses the plates and Hannibal dries them. They both know why so Will doesn’t bother elaborating. “Where would you like to go?” After a brief pause, he adds, “Other than Florence. I don’t want to go to Florence.”

The older man smiles. “Shall we head south? Argentina, perhaps.”

“Countryside or city?”

“The city.” Hannibal dries his hands and rolls down his sleeves. “It will offer us enough protection with the sheer volume of traffic.”

“Not Buenos Aires please,” says Will. He settles at the couch with his glass of wine. A nice, dry Torrontés, a perfect complement to their dinner of tilapia. He smiles at the other man. “Is that why you chose this wine?”

“A mere coincidence, I promise.” After he turns off the lights in the kitchen, Hannibal takes his seat next to Will. They are almost touching. “Mar del Plata then. Plenty of tourists who come and go. We’ll blend in with the sheep.”

“Assuming we can get there without being caught.”

“We won’t be caught.”

Will finishes his wine and lies down with his head on the armrest, his cold toes digging insistently under Hannibal’s thigh. Hannibal takes Will's feet and puts them in his lap. One of his warm hands rest on top of Will’s feet while the other kneads his toes.

They listen to the drumming of the rain, bathed in the light from the fireplace.

 

That night, Will kisses Hannibal at his bedroom door before he goes to his own bed. His room feels smaller and colder than it should be, but he listens to The Doors in his head, and for a few minutes he is sixteen and in his old room, smelling diesel and salt and stale cigarette smoke.

 

_Strange days have found us_

_And through their strange hours we linger alone_

_Bodies confused, memories misused_

_As we run from the day to a strange night of stone_

 

The next morning, Will wakes up to the smell of eggs and bacon. The scar in his cheek itches, and he looks out of the window.

Clear blue skies, and a few boats out there in the distance. Seagulls wheel over the shoreline and then sweep out of sight.

 

“Good morning,” says Hannibal.

Will brushes long silver-gold hair from Hannibal’s face and kisses him. “I’ll let the Goldsmiths know that we’d be away for a month. They can watch the house and water your herbs.”

 

The rain has muddied up the yard. There is an old ginger cat that sits in one of the chairs on the back porch. It glares at Will when he comes out, and flees when he takes a step closer. He leans against a post and sips his coffee with something close to contentment.

Hannibal comes out to join him. He holds Will around his waist. His hand slips under the shirt Will’s wearing, to brush casually over the scar he left behind that bloody night.

Will lets him. He trusts that Hannibal will not hurt him again.

Not with a knife, at any rate.

 

Two nights later, Will shares Hannibal’s bed once more. Hannibal said nothing the night before but welcomed him into the nest of blankets. It’s toasty warm, and Will wonders if he can braid Hannibal’s hair the next morning. He’s braided Molly’s hair before.

“It was lonely in my room.”

“I was lonely too.”

They listen to the distant surf, echoes of their lives before this.

“You’ve said you don’t need more than what I’m willing to give,” Will says into the darkness of the room, uncertain of where he is going with the statement.

Hannibal makes a curious noise.

The younger man curls on his side to face Hannibal. “If I were willing to give everything, what would you want of me?”

Without a word, Hannibal strokes his knuckles along Will’s cheek and jawline. Will’s skin under his beard tingles. Hannibal’s touch trails down along the side of Will’s neck, over his shoulder, along his arm, down to his waist and then the large hand rests on Will’s hip.

“I want to make love to you,” Hannibal says baldly. “I enjoy the sensations of sexual intercourse. There is a certain intimacy in sex that I wish to experience with you. Yet, for all that my body craves, my heart is content with this.”

“This...”

“This moment, when you and I are in the same bed, and you are here talking openly and honestly to me, and I can reciprocate with the same frankness. That I can touch you freely, breathe you in,” the older man leans in to brush his lips against Will’s mouth, “and kiss you, whenever I wish. I am content, my love, and while I will always welcome the chance for more, I do not need you to change yourself into someone you are not. Besides, the blood does not rise as easily as it used to when I was younger. This lack is not a hardship for me,Will.”

The younger man exhales as a knot undoes itself in his gut. There it is, the assurance he needs. He laces his fingers with Hannibal and wonders at the steadiness of his own pulse.

 

They have packed for their trip. The Goldsmiths, an elderly couple with an equally elderly mutt, promises to look after their house.

 

The morning they are to leave, Will wakes before Hannibal. He looks at the older man, at the lines framing his features. He imagines counting the strands of silver hair until that handsome head is snow white. He imagines growing old with him.

He shifts forward to kiss Hannibal, a deep, slow one, and tucks Hannibal’s hand behind the small of his back. Their bodies are pressed together from chest to knee. Hannibal wakes with a soft exhalation of morning breath.

“You will take what I give you,” Will says, mostly to reassure himself.

“Yes.” That steady helplessness in Hannibal’s tone reminds Will of the night he first kissed Hannibal. “What is it, Will?”

“I’ve been thinking.” Will licks his lips. He breathes in and out slowly, to keep his composure. He doesn’t know if he’s making a mistake, but he thinks he wants to try. “What you want - intercourse - won’t happen tonight. Maybe not ever. But the next time you... Next time, I want to be there. To touch you, or maybe just watch. I want to see how your body reacts in pleasure. I don’t know if I’ll respond, if I _can_ respond. But I want to know all of you, know you in all your moments. I want to... I want to touch you and make you feel good with my hands.”

When he's finished his little speech, Will runs his words over in his head again.

_\- How would you kill me?_

_\- With my hands._

“Will,” murmurs Hannibal, breathless. His yearning pours off him, like clouds over a mountain into a valley. Endless, endless desire, into the abyss that is _them._

“You like that.” Will smiles. “That I’ll see you at your most vulnerable and raw. That I’ll finally see what your other lovers have had the honor of admiring.”

“No. Not like them.”

And without further explanation, Will gets it. In Hannibal’s trysts and affairs, he has always been performing. Pretending to be normal, to be harmless.

As Will had been when he was with Molly and the six other women he slept with in the past.

_Just another man in your bed, fucking you, kissing you._

_Just another man who doesn’t see blood pouring off walls or shadows creeping over ceilings._

_Just another harmless man who can't imagine you dying in a thousand interesting ways._

He swallows the anticipation.

“No. I get to see you as no one else has ever seen you. I'll see you and _know you._ ”

“Oh, Will.” Hannibal clings to him and kisses him hungrily. There is heat trapped between them, thundering in their ears.

Trying his best not to squirm away, Will laughs and rubs his palm over Hannibal’s scruff. His laughter is rusty but sincere. Then he tangles his fingers into long silvering hair and tugs lightly. His heart is starting to race. He’s certain Hannibal can hear it. “I don’t want to promise you that I can ever be ready for you to - to fuck me, or that I will want it. But I want to watch you want me. I need to know how much you want me.”

Hannibal catches Will’s lower lip with his mouth and sucks on it. When he pulls away, with a slick, wet sound, he murmurs, “I hope I can please you with my desire for you.”

“I imagined you masturbating in the bathroom the other time. There weren’t enough details for me to color in the lines and I'm-” Will chews on his lower lip again. “I want to know the truth of you, in as many aspects as you're willing to show me.”

“I will dissect myself for your edification,” Hannibal says. It rings alarmingly true, and Will knows exactly what he means.

“And I would do the same for you. In another lifetime, perhaps.” The older man’s breath is hot and a little sour. Will rubs his nose against Hannibal’s. “Good morning, darlin’.”

_“Mano meile.”_

“Someday you'll teach me Lithuanian.”

“Of course. Anything you want.”


End file.
